


funeral touches

by Reveire



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: F/F, Just Lambda's point of view, Poetry, Weird Fluff, Weird fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28942323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reveire/pseuds/Reveire
Summary: To touch Bern is to touch a stormy night.(And Lambda understands, she always understands her so well even in their silence of a cemetery).
Relationships: Bernkastel/Lambdadelta (Umineko no Naku Koro ni)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	funeral touches

**Author's Note:**

> For a friend. Wrote this quickly in some few hours, I'm very sorry for the messy writing, I hope it's still good >.<

"Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light."

**Dylan Thomas.**

* * *

**i.**

Lambdadelta touches her and-

(Bernkastel has a thousand hells beating under her skin).

**ii.**

Bern is a stormy night. Lambda knows this more than anyone. Between their whispers at night, their glances in the darkness, the words that are whispered and that no one besides them has to hear. The times Lambda has caressed her, all the cracks in her skin like broken porcelain, the wicker of her hands and the softness of her varnished claws.

It's just that touching Bern is like touching cracked porcelain, wicker entangling between her brittle fingers. Sometimes Lambda thinks that she is soft, so terribly soft and made out of glass, that breaking her would actually be a matter of a handful of seconds and it sounds so easy it even looks like fun (but instead of doing that, Lambda takes her in her hands and hears all the latent hells in her skin, her heart of a pilgrim lost girl who has become a witch of her own nightmare, all of Bern's cries under her screams of anger, of all her ancient witch's laughter).

Lambda knows it, she knows everything she needs to know, she understands all the storms running through her veins, her blood stirring from her like a sea of screams; under Bern's skin there are hells, a thousand hells that sometimes even Lambda fears to peek out, the voice of her drowned corpses, her eyes that are wells of bitter and frightening truths.

Bern is a miracle in her hands, she reigns of all broken hopes and all putrid truths. When Lambda intertwines her fingers with hers, the arms around her neck, her mouth on hers, she can see all of this and even more. And Bern knows that she can see, because sometimes she lets her, stripping her miseries and her cruelties from her so that Lambda-

(they both are flowered corpses with black and white magic running through their veins,

if someone cries they laugh

if someone laughs they remember their own cries that no one has ever heard).

**iii.**

Bern is truly a black cat lost among the poplars, the corridors, the purgatories.

Lambda knows this because she is always watching her, and Bern always returns her touch in some way, almost like a silent, agitated affection. Bern always pulls away, almost angry, always abruptly; yet sometimes she’s always looking for her hands, her soft fingers interlacing with hers, the silent looks, the invisible smiles when she lets herself be kissed back. Just like a cat. So elegant and cold, the eyes of black glass, the silent affection.

And sometimes Lambda would giggle under her hands, not letting Bern see her, when she understands how affectionate she can turn, in her own very way. There were some few golden times where Lambda catched her _purring_ against her hands, the soft tremble of her throat; the times where she would slowly, so very slowly and silently, tilt her head against her hands when Lambda would stop touching her just for a moment, as if she wants her to keep going, as if she truly enjoys her touchs.

Lambda dares to remain silent, her big smile of sugar making her face hurt, the blushed cheeks, the eyes dancing with joy. And these are the moments too where Lambda doesn’t say anything, doesn’t point to Bern that doesn’t seem to be aware of her own actions, her eyes closed and letting herself being caressed, petted by Lambda’s hands slowly and softly playing between her hair. 

Bern’s touch is black and ethereal, elegant and careful, like the black cats staring from the darkness.

(because sometimes Bern doesn't push her away as usual, she doesn't scratch her with her varnished clawed hands. She lies on her touch almost hungry, resting her face on her hands like a coat in winter. Because Lambda is warm, so warm and cruel and sweet and broken that it sometimes disgusts her a bit and turns away, but she always returns to tangle in her feverish touch skin, her touch of a storm on the sand, summer tattooing on her intact snow skin).

Bern always pretends to push her away from her, but she always comes back to touch her too. And Lambda can't help but love her a little more, because they are so different and similar at the same time.

**iv.**

Lambda touches her and-

(she feels Bern's hands touching her back,

they are a handful of atoms in all the universes 

that they have ever lived).

There’s a funeral silence, sometimes, when they become entangled between the sheets and the thousand cups of tea at their own little tea parties where agonizing screams are heard like their own intimate music. Lambda whispers words of limerence and Bern whispers something in her ear that makes her giggle under her breath, almost making her blush. Lambda sees her eyes from abysmal wells and asks, almost incidentally:

“What sadness is behind _your_ anger, Bern?”

And Bern growls a bit, the annoyed expression turning into something else, and it’s the moment where she suddenly kisses her, Lambda staying still in her surprise. Bern kisses and nips at the same time the corner of her lips, her trembling hands, the trace of bitter sugar on her cheeks. 

And to touch Lambda is to touch a pink storm in the sea, a restless calm, a bittersweet truth under a crooked smile. Lambda is warm warm warm and Bern-

_(answers her question in her own silence, no words needed, all her agony tattooed on her soul. And Lambda gets it then, she understands, she always understands her so well even in their silence of a cemetery._

_She thinks hell it’s alright, just sometimes, as long as Lambda’s hands are interlaced with hers, even when they’re apart from each other)._

To touch each other is to understand their own hells.

**v.**

Love is a constellation of witchy laughters lost in an echo.


End file.
